Fallout
by Nightfawkes
Summary: Burn an asset, buy a bottle.


A/N: Episode tag for 3x06; Chuck vs. the Nacho Sampler 

Johnnie Walker. Black.

Chuck poured three fingers of amber liquid into the glass, sipped, swallowed, grimaced at the taste, and then frowned. He felt the whiskey instantly, on his tongue, travelling down the back of his throat. It felt like little flickers tracing up the back of his nasal passages, reaching for his brain. Fiery tendrils snaking down, threading their way into his lungs. It burned. He burned. He had burned his first asset. Didn't that make him a man now, or some such bullshit? With hardly a pause to think about it, he downed the rest of the glass. The frown remained, but there was no sign of the grimace this time.

He felt like a stranger in his own skin.

It had been coming on so gradually, he had hardly even noticed. But now… Now he was hard-pressed to remember who he was most days. Sometimes he would turn, and catch an unexpected glimpse of himself in a mirror, and he wouldn't even recognize his own face. Who was that quiet, handsome, sober-looking man with the dark, shuttered eyes? Where was his smile? What secrets haunted him so?

Chuck tried to slide the corners of his lips into his old, carefree-with-my-heart-on-my-sleeve grin, and felt like the effort might just shatter his face. Smiles felt like masks right now; cloying, suffocating, concealing.

He poured more whiskey – a full three-quarters of the tumbler this time, and leaned back in his chair. Prepared himself to settle in for a night of serious drinking. This was the first time Chuck had ever deliberately sought relief and escape in the bottom of a bottle. Unfortunately, he rather thought it might not be his last.

But hey, he had it on excellent authority that this was a tried and true method for dealing with the ache that was slowly hollowing out his chest. With a deceptively practiced-looking motion, he threw back the entire second glass of whiskey. Let the fire fill the hollow, and chase out the ghosts with numbness. If Casey said it would help, then Chuck was a believer.

He took a deep breath, and tried his hardest not to think about anything as he poured himself a third glass. He was making respectable headway into this bottle, now. Probably should slow down, but it seemed like his arm had other ideas. He watched with curious disinterest as his hand lifted the tumbler and carried it to his lips. He tipped his head back, exposing the long pale lines of his throat, and welcomed the liquid sear.

"So. Big day, huh Chuck?" Damn it. Chuck clenched his fingers around the glass and closed his eyes. Damn it, damn it, damn it all to hell. This was what Chuck did _not_ want. There was supposed to be absolutely no thinking, pondering, musing, wondering, or introspections allowed. Especially if his internal voice was going to sound so very exactly like Casey. Because that meant that whatever might follow, his subconscious was not going to play nice. It was going to inform Chuck in excruciating detail just how many ways he had fucked up, fouled-out, or fallen short this time. Chuck's inner Casey-voice did not believe in sugar coating truths. This was a character trait Chuck could appreciate in the real, live Casey, but not so much in the deep, inner recesses of his own mind. Sometimes a guy just wanted his own psyche to coddle him a little, you know? But it was too late now. Now as soon as he gave it a chance, that voice was going to say something biting and cold, something like…

"Did I ever tell you about the first asset I burned?"

Huh?

Chuck opened his eyes, and found an actual Casey looking down at him from the other side of the table. The agent's tall form was still dressed as he'd been at the Castle earlier, ubiquitous backpack slung over the right shoulder. Those keen blue eyes seemed oddly devoid of their habitual mockery, and instead the man simply seemed to be waiting.

Waiting?

Oh, right. Casey had asked him a question.

"Ahh… No. No, I don't believe you have."

Casey snorted, shrugged the backpack off his shoulder, and slid into the chair across from Chuck. "And I'm not about to start, either. What, only one glass? What kind of a joint are you running here, Bartowski?"

Chuck blinked in bemusement as Casey's hands snagged the glass and bottle, and dragged them to his side of the small table. "Johnnie Walker. Black label. Well, what do you know – the kid can follow an instruction after all." Casey poured himself a stiff shot, and threw it back.

Chuck was trying his best to figure out what on earth Casey was doing there, but he had already rounded his buzz and was sprinting his way towards being quite drunk, which was making it difficult to conjecture. Plus the other man was giving him nothing to work with. Just sitting there, that large hand dwarfing the crystal-cut tumbler, body language totally relaxed. Chuck thought that maybe he should just ask. But if he did, and then Casey got offended, then he'd probably leave. And now that Chuck actually had company, he was quickly realizing how very much he did not want to be alone right now. Well, he did. But he still didn't want Casey to leave. Which didn't seem to make much sense on the surface, but sometimes being with Casey was like having all the comfort of being alone, without the lashing pain of loneliness. Chuck had never met anyone else in his life that could sit so quietly, hardly moving, yet still fill a room with… with _presence_, the way Casey did. And after three years of near daily exposure to that presence, Chuck had grown accustomed to it. Had come to rely on it. The familiarity of Casey wrapped around Chuck like an embrace, and despite himself, Chuck began to feel the tension ease out of his shoulders and neck.

He slowly slumped over the table, head on his hands, eyes fixed on Casey as the man idly leaned his chair back on two legs, sharp gaze unfocused for once. Casey made no move to pass the bottle back to Chuck, and Chuck was content to let it be. The minutes stretched on, unremarked, and the warm silence of the night soothed Chuck and began to dampen the fire that was racing through him. Chuck didn't even know how long they had sat like that before he realized that Casey was humming, softly, to himself.

Chuck's breath caught in his throat.

Casey's voice was low, and a little gruff, and Chuck found it fascinating. He laid his head down on the table, pillowed on his bicep, other arm stretched out before him, fingers gently curved against his palm. As his eyes slid shut, he listened intently, hearing the true tones beneath the gravel exterior, and trying to imagine John Casey as a young boy, singing his soul in church. What must that child have been like? Chuck saw a little lad, a bit tall for his age, with a mop of dark hair, bright blue eyes, and more length of limb than he would have known what to do with.

The vision made Chuck smile, and this time, it didn't hurt.

There was a sound of chair legs reconnecting with floor. A warm, calloused finger stroked once across the back of Chuck's knuckles, and Casey said, "I know what you're going through, Chuck. I see it. And if Sarah had her way, you would never ever have to experience any of this. But life doesn't work that way. I know that. And I think you know that too, or else you would not be trying to become who you are becoming. We adapt, or we are made obsolete. That's just survival of the fittest. And so help me, I will do everything in my power to make sure you survive. I will not apologize for that. And I will not keep you from the things you must experience. But I can keep you from experiencing them the way I did. You won't have to face the fallout alone."

And there it was. That carefree-with-my-heart-on-my-sleeve grin slowly spreading across his face, and Chuck rejoiced to be back in his own skin.

"So… WeapCon, huh?" He turned his hand over, and gently tangled his fingers with Casey's. "You think next time we can talk Sarah into a CIA sponsored shopping trip? I think those itty bitty knives and I could really go places together."

Casey growled and rolled his eyes, but he was there, and his hands were strong, and his grip was sure. Casey tipped back in his chair and began to hum once again, as Chuck quietly slipped into sleep.

THE END


End file.
